by Lindy Zart
“You’re one to talk. You don’t look much better.”
He opened his mouth, and then closed it. “What happened on the phone? You were there and then you weren’t.” Lincoln’s eyes went to the floor and he leaned down to pick up the beeping phone. He turned it off and resituated it on the wall before narrowing his flint-colored eyes on her. “I miss him too, Sara, but at least I work. At least I try to be normal. I don’t hide in my house and push everyone away. You lost your husband, but I lost my brother.”
Those words pierced her with overwhelming anguish. “Why don’t you hate me?” she asked raggedly.
Lincoln slammed his fingers through his hair, messing it up more. One lock went to rest against his forehead. “I think you hate yourself enough for the both of us.” He pointed a finger in the direction of the living room. “Go take a shower. Now.”
She shook her head. “No.”
He shifted his jaw back and forth, determination darkening his features. “You get in that shower now or I’ll put you in it myself.”
A trickle of fear went down her back, but Sara didn’t really believe Lincoln would do that. But the look on his face; it said he would. “I’m fine, Lincoln. I just…I dropped the phone and…”
“Don’t lie to me, Sara. Believe me; I’ve said it all before myself. Maybe instead of wallowing away in self-pity, you should think of how Cole would feel knowing you’re like this. Is it your goal to end up like him? Is that it?”
Sara recoiled at the use of his name, sucking in a sharp breath and turning away from Lincoln. He kept talking, but she couldn’t hear him over the roar in her ears. She fought for every breath, wanting to drop to her knees. Sara closed her eyes. Hearing his name was too much. It hurt too much to hear it, to say it, to even think it. So she didn’t.
The tears streamed down her cheeks, dropping to the white and gray linoleum floor. Sara braced a hand against the fridge and hung her head. She felt his warmth like he was behind her, holding her. Only it wasn’t him. It would never be him again. Lincoln touched her shoulder and Sara jerked away, stumbling back and bumping into the stove. “Don’t touch me, Lincoln.”
His jaw clenched. “Why? What happens when someone touches you? Do you melt?”
“You’re an ass,” she told him in a voice that shook.
“I’ve been gentle with you, Sara, but no more. This has gone on long enough. Now get in the shower and get dressed. We’re going to go see him.”
She mutely shook her head. No. She couldn’t. Sara couldn’t go to that place. She couldn’t see him. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t her husband. Sara wrapped her arms around herself and hunched over, trying to make the hollowness go away, trying to make the unrelenting sick feeling disappear. She was dying on the inside, losing herself, turning into a pulsating mass of pain and nothing else. That was all she was now. Sara didn’t know how to make it stop. She longed for it to stop.
Lincoln grabbed her arms and pulled her up and toward him.
“I said don’t touch me!” she shrieked, trying to tug her arms from his grasp, but he only tightened his grip. “Lincoln, let go of me. Let go of me!” Sara moved to slap him, to push him away.
He brought her body against his. Panic made her fight harder. No one’s arms but his should be around her. Not ever. Sara lurched away, wanting Lincoln’s hands off her. Not letting her get away, Lincoln pulled her to him again and rested his chin on the crown of her head; large, resilient, and unmovable. Sara made puny, pitiful attempts to remove his touch, but it wasn’t going anywhere. He was too strong and she was too weak.
“Lincoln, please,” she whispered, unable to stand the touch of another man. It felt like disloyalty to him.
He didn’t answer; just kept holding her.
Shaking, spent, she finally went still. Her arms were wedged between them and of their own accord her palms rested on his hard, warm chest. His heart pounded beneath her hand. Bu-bum…bu-bum…bu-bum. Sara turned her attention to that, her breaths slowing, and her body relaxing the longer she concentrated on the steady, strong beat.
The minutes they stayed like that were endless. For the first time in a long time Sara felt not quite so alone. Relief washed over her in the safety of his arms. Lincoln knew her pain. He knew what she was going through. He was going through it himself. He’d lost him too. The catastrophic difference between them, though, was that it wasn’t his fault. It was Sara’s. It was a glaring truth she couldn’t ignore or forget. Sara stiffened as the remorse came back in full attack, punching her in the stomach and taking her breath away.
“What are you doing to yourself?” he murmured.
Sara had no response. When she tried to pull away, Lincoln held her nearer. She closed her eyes, exhaling deeply.
“Stop doing it.” His hands moved to the sides of her head and he smoothed her tangled hair from her face, gently pushing her away and leaning down so their eyes met. “You’re not alone. Don’t ever feel like you’re alone. You know that, right?”
Sara stared at the gold flecks in his eyes, swallowing thickly. His eyes were silver and gold. She jerked her head in a semblance of a nod.
Lincoln sighed deeply and dropped his hands. “Go. I’ll wait here.”
She blinked her eyes against the tears, but they kept coming. “Lincoln, I…I can’t. I can’t go there.” Sara took a shaky breath, moving to put the table between them.
He looked at her for a long time. “But you will take a shower?” Lincoln finally asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll take it.” He nodded his head in the direction of the bathroom, one eyebrow lifted.
Sara slowly walked toward the bathroom. “What will you do?” she asked when she reached it.
“I’ll be right here.” He patted the back of the cream-colored couch.
Once inside the bathroom, Sara fell against the closed door, struggling to get air into her lungs. She went to the mirror. A hollow-eyed, haunted face stared back. Her eyes had always been big, but now they almost looked cartoonish. Large and dark in a white face. Sara gripped the counter and leaned over it, staring down at the sink. A drop of water dripped from the faucet, disappearing down the drain into the dark unknown. That’s what she felt like. Sara was being sucked into a black hole of nothingness, and once that happened, she would disappear. She would cease to exist.
“How’s that shower going?”
Sara jumped at the sound of Lincoln’s voice on the other side of the door. She wanted him to go away and leave her alone with her misery and despondency. She wanted the world to go away. Sara sighed. That wouldn’t be happening. And she knew Lincoln well enough to know once his mind was set, there was no changing it. He wouldn’t be going anywhere either.
She rubbed her face and turned on the faucet in the shower, the small tan-walled room quickly steaming up with moisture and heat. Sara untied her robe and let it drop to the floor. The worn and ratty robe had been a gift from him and taking it off was shedding a security blanket. It was removing a piece of him from her and doing so for even a short period of time was painful to her. She practically lived in the thing. Its frayed and unraveled fabric was proof of that. Sara removed the rest of her clothes and got into the shower.
***
After quickly throwing on an old UW-Platteville sweatshirt of his and jeans that almost hung on her, Sara hurried from the room too many memories lived in and walked into the kitchen. The scent of coffee hit her along with fried eggs and toast. She looked from the table where a steaming mug of coffee and a glass of orange juice sat with a plate of one egg and two slices of toast over to where Lincoln leaned with his elbows against the counter, his eyes on her.
Sundays had been their breakfast days. They’d sleep in late and make a mess out of the kitchen preparing a midday feast. Sara had been in charge of the eggs and potatoes and he’d always prepared the pancakes and bacon. He’d made the best pancakes. They’d melted on her tongue and she always overate on Sundays. She hadn’t had pancakes in over a year, not si
nce the last time he’d made them. A lot of things had stopped with him; her, for one.
Sara inhaled sharply, looking away from Lincoln’s intent stare. It didn’t matter. She still felt the heat of his eyes on her. Those stormy gray eyes were studying, judging. Those eyes were not happy. “I should have stopped by sooner. I didn’t realize you’d gotten this bad.”
Sara tucked wet, limp hair behind her ears. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. I really wish you’d quit saying you’re fine when you are so obviously not fine.” He straightened and walked to the table, pulling out a chair. “Sit. Eat.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be working today?”
“Yeah. I was.”
He was until she’d called. Lincoln didn’t have to say the words, but she knew that’s what had happened. Sara swallowed as guilt heated her skin. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop being sorry, Sara.”
She grabbed the back of a chair and lowered herself into it, staring down at the plate. The thought of food made her stomach turn. It usually did. “How…how are things going? At work?”
He poured himself a cup of coffee, sitting down across from her at the table. “Work is work.” The room shrank with him inside it; big and towering and intense. It made Sara nervous. She’d never realized how large of a presence he had; how commanding it was.
Lincoln and he had owned a carpentry business together: Walker Building. They’d done everything from roofs to siding to interior renovation. The company did basically anything house-related, other than plumbing. That they didn’t do. Now Lincoln ran it by himself; the lone brother where they should be two. More work, more stress, less help, because of Sara. He was without a lot of things these days, because of her.
Sara took a piece of toast, her eyes stinging. Lincoln had cut the toast for her. In triangles. Why was he so nice to her when it was her fault his brother wasn’t around? She would never understand that. How Lincoln could be so forgiving. He was the one person she had expected to loathe her, above all others, and he was the one person she’d been so wrong about.
“Did I cut it wrong?”
She looked up, the toast still in her hand. “No. You cut it right.”
He paused with the mug to his lips. “Good to know.”
The toast was dry and Sara choked down half of one slice to appease Lincoln. She drank the juice and sipped at the coffee. The silence was drawn out to the point of uncomfortable. Sara repeatedly opened her mouth to tell him about the phone conversation with Dr. Henderson, but she held back. It was her burden alone. And when Lincoln did find out, what then? She didn’t want to tell him until she had no choice. But he had a right to know. Sara knew that. It still wasn’t enough of an incentive for her to tell him. Not yet. She needed more time.
It was cowardly of her, but that was inconsequential when she thought of the alternative. Would he turn his back on her when he found out? Would he no longer look at her with compassion, but with loathing? And why did the thought make her stomach clench? Because he’s all I have left of him. Startled by the thought, Sara unconsciously jerked, her hand hitting the coffee mug. It didn’t tip. Lincoln reached over and grabbed it before it did. He slowly slid the mug to her right, far enough away so there was no chance of her accidently bumping it.
“How long has it been since you’ve gone there?”
She stiffened. Sara knew where he was talking about. There was no pretending she didn’t. “A few weeks.” Two. It had been two weeks and two days.
At first Sara had gone every day to the place where her husband rested, for hours and hours at a time. But the longer she’d gone to that place and stared down at what was supposed to be her husband and wasn’t, the harder it had been. She didn’t want to remember him that way; Sara wanted to remember him as he’d been alive. She’d feared all her old memories of him would fade away and be replaced with the nothingness he now was.
Sara had hidden away in her house that used to be their house and tried to ignore reality. It was stupid of her to think such a thing was possible; the pain was alive in her; there was no way to escape it as long as she drew air into her lungs. Sara hated herself for staying away as long as she had, and yet she continued to stay away.
The last time she’d seen him had been the day she’d gone to Wyalusing State Park. The day it all had been too much. The day she’d been unable to exist with the constant ache anymore. When the pain had been too much, unbearable; when she’d looked at what was supposed to be her husband and hated herself more than she’d ever thought possible. That was the day she’d wanted to end it all, the day she’d yearned for a way to stop the pain and regret and longing. It was a bitter toxin; her existence. Too weak to live; too weak to die.
“How can you stay away?” he demanded, breaking Sara from her bleary reverie.
Her eyes flew to his face. She saw the anger in it, the hurt, and she looked away. That’s what Sara did. She looked away from things that hurt, she pretended they didn’t exist, she avoided. It was agony going to that place, seeing what he was, knowing what he would never be again. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t her husband. Sometimes Sara could almost convince herself he was on a trip, a really long trip, and someday soon he’d return. Sometimes she almost believed it. But then the pain came back, the memories, the profound sense of loss, the emptiness and the guilt, and she couldn’t pretend any longer.
“Don’t you think you at least owe it to him to visit?”
Sara lurched back in her chair, her breath catching. Pain wracked her as she stared at Lincoln.
He pressed his lips together, his brows furrowing. “Shit. That’s not—I didn’t mean it like that.”
Sara couldn’t speak.
Lincoln rubbed his face, sighing. “That wasn’t what I meant, Sara. I only meant…he’s your husband. You should go there, be with him, see him.”
“It isn’t him,” she choked out, blinking away tears that continued to wet her eyelashes.
He shot to his feet, causing Sara’s stomach to flip, and stated, “Get your coat. We’re going for a drive.”
“No. I’m not going there, Lincoln. I’m not ready,” she said, shrinking away from him as he advanced on her.
He stopped by her chair. “Not ready? For what?”
She swallowed, avoiding his eyes. Not ready to accept what he is instead of what he was. Coward; that’s what Sara was. Not strong enough to see him; not strong enough to live. She hated herself, she truly did. When had she turned into this person she didn’t recognize?
It happened on a warm summer night when my heart was ripped apart and flung in a million unrecoverable directions.
“We’re not going there, but we’re going somewhere. You need to get out of here. I need to get out of here. And this is what we’re going to do; we’re not going to talk about anything that makes us sad. Deal?”
Lincoln offered a hand. It was large and long-fingered with callouses over callouses on it. It was a hand that swung a hammer on a daily basis. Sara hesitantly put her hand in his. His swallowed hers whole as he pulled her to her feet.
“Don’t you need to go back to work?”
He headed for the closet near the door. “I’m the boss. I don’t have to work if I don’t want to work. It’s pretty much the best thing about having my own company.” He flashed a grin as he pulled a purple jacket from the closet and tossed it at her. Reflexes slow, it hit Sara before she even raised her hands in preparation. Lincoln laughed a little. “I see your athletic abilities haven’t improved with time.”
The only thing she’d ever been able to do was run. Any sports where hand and eye coordination and teamwork were needed Sara was a liability more than anything. She almost smiled. Sara felt her lips muscles begin to lift and instead frowned.
Lincoln’s laughter broke off and he shook his head. He strode for the door, muttering, “It’s okay to smile, Sara.”
It wasn’t.
5
The air was cold and sharp. It went through her
coat and jeans, layering her body with an uncomfortable chill she couldn’t shake. Sara shivered as she took in the gray-tinged day, knowing snow was in the forecast. It would come. That was the one thing that never changed: the world kept moving, even when a life stopped.
The smoky wood smell of a wood burning stove filled her nostrils as she followed Lincoln to his silver Dodge truck. The Walker boys had always loved their Dodges with the diesel engines. The street was quiet; most people were at work and their children were either in school or at daycare. Houses of different shapes and sizes lined the streets; most small, but nice. An occasional shabby house stood out among the more pleasant ones.
Boscobel, Wisconsin was a modest town with a population in the three thousands. It had a correctional institution on the outskirts of it and boasted to be the ‘turkey hunting capital of Wisconsin’. Everyone knew everyone’s business in Boscobel, which sometimes was a good thing, but usually wasn’t. People knew things about people the person in question didn’t even know about themself. Sara was pretty sure she didn’t want to know what was being said about her.
There was Subway, A&W, and Dairy Queen to pick from for fast food restaurants. Three gas stations strategically placed; one at one end of town, one in the middle, and the other on the other side of town, so no matter what direction you went; you were sure to find a reminder to fill up your tank.
The big hot spot of the town was the old movie theater open since 1935. It had been remodeled since then and played one movie at a time. It boasted inexpensive ticket and snack food prices and a large portion of the town frequented it on a regular basis. There was also the Civil War reenactment that took place every August, rain or shine. Cannons could be heard going off from the battlefield and people in 1800’s garb roamed the streets.
